


Trade Off

by hophophop



Series: Things Said & Unsaid [2]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, no hugs, this is not a happy place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I’m not gonna follow you." —Watson, "M"</em>
</p><p>The steep flight of stairs up to the oasis of her room loomed in front of her like a cliff-face, and she opted to head downstairs first. Maybe eating something would help ground her enough to make the next round of choices, like which shoe to take off first.</p><p>Started off as a 2x22 tag; now in a parallel universe for the start of 2x23: inserts an extra day and wraps up before Sherlock's debriefing with MI6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was almost dawn when the unmarked SUV pulled up in front of the brownstone. The men must have destroyed her phone when they took her, but at least she still had her keys. She had to use both hands to push open the car door and stepped cautiously down to the sidewalk on wobbly legs. Too much caffeine on top of too long without sleep and adrenaline crash. Mycroft had started to make arrangements for her, but she cut him off, saying she just wanted to go home, to sleep in her own bed. She could barely focus her eyes anymore, let alone absorb his explanations or mollify his regrets. They’d let her make a call from a landline but Sherlock didn’t answer his phone and his voicemail wasn’t working. When she asked Mycroft where he was, he said they’d disagreed on how to proceed and gone their separate ways. She suspected the situation was more complicated than that, given what she’d just witnessed, but he said nothing else when she tried to stare him down. He didn’t offer to accompany her home.

The lights were on inside, and as she dragged herself up the front stairs alone, having refused the services of the security agent assigned to her, she was caught between hope and trepidation that Sherlock was there, waiting for her. She desperately wanted to feel safe but was wary of his state of mind. She had nothing left to give right now. No reserves. If he came at her in a frenzy of emotion she’d collapse under the onslaught. But all was still when she reached the foyer and there was no response when she called “Hello?” in a voice she barely recognized as her own. The steep flight of stairs up to the oasis of her room loomed in front of her like a cliff-face, and she opted to head downstairs first. Maybe eating something would help ground her enough to make the next round of choices, like which shoe to take off first.

She’d walked a few steps from the base of the stairs before she realized the floor was covered in plastic, and she couldn’t understand until the table came into view. She recognized a few of the instruments laid out there and braced herself against the stairwell to control the gorge rising in anticipation of what lay on the other side of the hallway wall. Two more steps, heart pounding, and the full room was in view. Plastic sheeting everywhere, two chairs pushed back toward the sink and one on the far side of the table, for an observer, perhaps. But no blood; she closed her eyes and opened them again, still holding onto the wall. No blood, and no body. She slid down against the wall and hid her face in her hands, shaking with relief and horror. That maybe no one died to find her. That things were done in her name she could not bear to consider. That lines she didn’t know she still lived behind had been crossed and there was no going back.

Upstairs the door crashed open to Sherlock’s frantic shout, “Watson! Watson, where are you!?”


	2. Chapter 2

He took the stairs three at a time and burst into her room, bruising his shoulder when he overshot the door frame by an inch. Nothing was disturbed there from this morning when he’d stopped for a moment on his way down from the roof to what should have been a turn at fratricide. He’d hoped a few minutes with the bees and fresh air would help him sharpen his focus. Instead he'd only felt insignificant and overwhelmed by everything he did not know. 

He spun around to face the bathroom, but the door was open and no sign of her there. If fucking Mycroft had misled him again, used her _again—_

“Watson!” More likely she’d gone downstairs than further up, so he ran back down the stairs and continued around, with a quick glance across the main floor to confirm her absence and then on to the kitchen. Here was evidence, at last, fresh footprints on the plastic, just one set, much smaller than the others, and clearly overlaid on the drag marks from Yoder’s feet.

Oh.

“Watson, it was a matter of utmost—“ He turned into the kitchen and found it empty, too. Heart pounding, he scanned the floor, saw where she had stood by the built-in and the path she took out toward the back door. Disbelieving the evidence he turned back, checked his room and the spare room beyond, feeling the weight of the deduction compressing his lungs. Returning slowly to the kitchen, he saw the torn scrap of paper next to the tool bag and the pen on top holding it in place.

> _Not this._


	3. Chapter 3

Half an hour before dawn with no wallet and no phone and no desire — no capacity — to talk about it, she could think of only one place to go. It was a forty-minute walk when she wasn't bone-tired, and the kitchen had been serving breakfast for fifteen minutes by the time she got to the shelter. One of the other regular volunteers was sitting on the floor in the storage nook behind the front desk, sorting donations. "Hey Dr. Joan, you're in early today," he said a little too loud, and she was grateful for the music she could hear pulsing from his headphones; no conversation necessary. The bleary night desk attendant didn't question her when she asked to be let into the volunteer coordinator's office. She pushed the door closed behind her and stood a moment in the dim room, barely illuminated through dingy transom windows.

She shrugged out of her coat, sank down on the couch in a fetal position and pulled the coat over her head, tucking the sides behind her back and under her knees. She used to "hide" like this as a little girl, pretending no one could see her because she couldn't see them. Oren would come and sit on her, pretending along with her that he didn't know she was there, and they'd giggle and switch roles over and over until Mom sent them to the playground down the block. They had to promise to hold hands crossing each street, but at seven and ten they went out on their own. A different time.

She jolted awake with the flare of the overhead lights and Chioma's startled exclamation. "What— Joan? What are you doing here?"

Pushing up to sitting and pulling her hair back, she squinted up at the clinical manager. "Uh, sorry. I, uh, I lost my bag, and I couldn't reach my housemate and just needed a place to wait…" Her head was pounding, and she suspected her story sounded even more ridiculous to someone who was actually able to think.

"Didn't you get the message?"

"What message? No, my phone…"

"Your father." Chioma saw the stricken look on her face. "No, no, no, he's fine. He's _here_. He came in last night, and we've been trying to reach you. He's been talking about you. Check the dining hall."

She stood on the threshold and scanned the room for Mets blue. ( _"They're our team, Joanie, don't forget. You gotta stay loyal to your team."_ ) He wasn't wearing a cap, but the familiar angle of his head and shoulders caught her eye, two tables over facing away from her. He was animated, talking to the man across from him who nodded in a regular rhythm with tired eyes that kept drifting closed. She approached the end of the table and rested her hand on the edge. "Hi," she said, steeling herself against hope he'd recognize her.

"Joanie! Joanie, you're here at last! I've been looking for you everywhere!" He grinned up at her, and she couldn't help noticing another missing tooth. He waved to his companion. "Mike, this is my daughter I've been telling you about! She's in medical school!"

Mike glanced up at her, and she nodded a greeting, afraid she'd burst out crying if she opened her mouth. He pushed back his chair and stood up; he was as tall as Mycroft, and she winced at the comparison. "Here you go, have a seat with your dad." Before she could protest he continued, "I got somewhere to be anyway. See you around Hui."

Her father reached across the table for her hands, and she thought he must be taking his meds to be so comfortable with touch. He wouldn't let her hug him last time. She gripped his hands and stared down at them, at a loss for what to say.

"What's the matter, Joanie? Are you studying too hard? You look tired."

She forced a little smile as she looked up, but she couldn't hold it. "I had a bad week, Dad. I— I had a test I wasn't prepared for. It was really hard, and I don't know if I passed. Maybe... I don't know if I'm cut out for this." She gave up trying to stop her tears.

He shifted both her hands to one of his and patted them with his other. "Don't cry, you'll do fine, you're so smart Joanie, I know you'll do fine. Do you want me to get you some cocoa? That was your favorite when you were little." He shifted in his chair a little but didn’t get up, and pulled a paper napkin out of the dispenser in the middle of the table and handed it to her. "Here, for your face, that's a good girl."

"I'm sorry. I'm just really tired." She wiped her eyes and looked up at him. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you. Are you okay? Do you need anything?" The wrong thing to say, as he leaned back in his chair and looked around the room.

"Joanie, I'm fine, I'm always fine. Keeping busy, you know, like I always do. Now that we're caught up I'm good to go. Just a minute now, where is it…" His felt around his jacket and pants, checking pockets repeatedly until he pulled out an orange plastic whistle and handed it to her. "Here you are. I know I missed your birthday, but I've been keeping this safe until I saw you again. Now you can make music wherever you go! And when I hear it I'll come find you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to beanarie for checking my homeless shelter details, and to sanguinity for [assigning Hui as Joan's middle name](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1372351) and giving permission to use it here as her father's name.


	4. Chapter 4

Pinned between his forefingers and thumbs, Watson’s note shivered with his pulse. Reassurance that she was in hand, so to speak, ebbed and flowed with ferocious disbelief that in fact she was not. Not here, not safe.

 _Not this_.

He folded the note carefully, lining up its uneven edges as precisely as possible before slipping it into his breast pocket. What else could he have done? She’d not given him any advanced-care directive, left no DNR order. Extraordinary measures were taken to preserve her life, and he would brook no regrets. The recollection pooled, stagnant in his throat, and he swallowed against the hard press of his larynx. “Watson, what would you have had me do?” he muttered. The refrigerator compressor suddenly juddered on with a loud clank.

Taking deep breaths, he pushed both palms against his eyes and reminded himself she wasn’t actually participating in this conversation. _Since when has that ever stopped you?_ she’d retort, if she were still here. But she wasn’t; it would seem she left of her own volition. Just as she had two days before, wanting to warn the loathsome berk who had the effrontery to share his DNA. What sort of clean-up mission could he have arranged? Incomplete, ineffectual, insufficient: his brother, all over. Loose threads would remain, placing Watson in jeopardy, again. Still.

Careful examination of the slight impressions on the plastic and the unlocked back door convinced him she had walked calmly across the kitchen and out through the courtyard. There was no sign the lock had been tampered with, and her keys were upstairs by her coat hook. The faint footprints were even; no scuffs or indication of imbalance or unsteadiness. Whatever her state of mind at the time, she knew what she was doing and was alone in the kitchen when she did it. When she left. Her note made clear he was the last person she wanted to see, and he would do her the courtesy of not chasing after her.

Ever since Mycroft had told him— _Lied_ to him about the threat of being cut off and questioned his commitment to Watson’s financial wellbeing, he’d sporadically revisited the hypothetical but entirely probable scenario that he would, one day, be on his own again. Despite her affinity for the work, and most unexpectedly, for him, she would eventually recognize the likely literal dead end that was remaining his partner. Q.E.D.

Prior to Mycroft mucking everything up, he alternately imagined she’d never leave or she’d eventually tire of the uncertainty and inherent instability that trailed in his wake. She had long ago tired of the low priority he placed on social decorum. There had been a warning, of sorts. Nothing so extreme as an ultimatum, but when he stated the facts of his character, she stated her own. _No one can accept something like that forever._ A statement of the obvious, of course; an unnecessary lesson imposed upon him time and again. Part of him had wondered which of his failings would be her last straw since the day they met.

He never should have allowed Mycroft—

He replaced the items in the tool bag carefully, but as he began pulling up the plastic sheeting from the table, his control over the energy building within faltered. At first each yank and tear was a means of release. A way to vent his fury over his brother’s betrayal and over his own inexcusable naiveté in trusting him. Instead of collecting incriminating evidence with Nigella in the London Eye all those years ago, he should have taken Mycroft up and shoved him out a pod window. And if he’d had to sacrifice himself to get the job done, well, consider how much more failure and disappointment could have been prevented.

He pulled hard enough on the plastic by the stove to send one chair crashing into the refrigerator, and he ripped up the other piece on the floor to do the same to the chair where Yoder had begged for mercy. In his mind, Watson calmly and deliberately smashed a plate where that chair fell, and he collapsed to a squat, pressing the top of his head with his fists. The last thing he needed was the memory of a conversation about failure and heroin. _That’s not what it was about_ , Watson would say. But she wasn’t here and didn’t know how many times a day he recalled what he’d hidden in that book upstairs. She wasn’t here, and she couldn’t tell him he was wrong.

Hours later, the scoured kitchen was cleaner than it had ever been in his tenancy, Ms Hudson notwithstanding. The plastic was bundled into trash bags along with half the contents of the refrigerator and cupboards, and all of it removed to a dumpster. Remaining stores organized in the most logical manner. Sink cleared, stove scrubbed, windows open to clear the sour air. The tool bag was stowed out of sight, but the taser was missing, presumably with Mycroft. (Best not to follow that line of thought.) In the study, his computers were full of incriminating evidence of his actions tonight, but he doubted she’d bothered to check his search history. In any case, it was all too obvious that she hardly needed further proof of his actions; more likely she’d simply prefer not to be reminded of it when she returned.

If, that is. If she returned.

A wave of exhaustion overtook him, doing nothing to quell the conjuring of scenarios, voluntary and involuntary, that might preclude her homecoming. Opening his eyes, he was surprised how light it was outside — well into mid-morning, now. Where had she gone? How much longer…? He needed another task, penance for the desecration… (He’d do it again, and more.) His kitchen purge left scant supplies for a proper meal, but she wouldn’t want that anyway. Wouldn’t sit at this table, yet, nor with him… Something simple that would keep until she came back but be ready the moment she did. He’d have to make do; he couldn’t leave the brownstone to acquire anything until he knew where she was.

Another hour passed after he decamped to the library, desperate for occupation or distraction. His phone’s silence — no calls, texts, or emails — left him jumping at every sound. Even the scanners barely murmured. Normally the violin could provide needed distraction, but he’d break every string if he tried to play in his current state of mind. He thought he was hallucinating for a moment when he finally heard the back door open. He rushed to the head of the stairs, then stopped, unsure how to proceed. It took effort to push his voice through the tension strangling him.

“Watson?”

Nothing, and then slow shuffled footsteps that paused just before he expected her to come into view. He could hear her breathing, and he held his own to listen. She continued on, and when at last he saw her, the air abruptly left his body, and he gasped to pull it back. She looked up then, and he saw she looked the same. Exhausted and a little rumpled, maybe, but he found himself shocked by the absence of any marker of what had transpired. Relieved, of course, by no sign of physical trauma, although only an idiot (Mycroft) could imagine she was unscathed.

When she was five steps from the top she paused again, her hand a death grip on the bannister, and after a moment of staring at her staring at the next step, he moved backwards and she resumed, each taking a step at a time, maintaining the same distance between them. He took one more step back after she came to a halt and sagged against the edge of the lock room table.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, noting her white knuckles, and she looked down, brow furrowed. She regarded her closed fist and then brought it up to press against her chest, never loosening her grip on a piece of orange plastic.

“It's nothing. I just need a shower. I’m fine.”

That was so patently false and yet so blessedly familiar that he almost laughed as indignation and relief wrestled inside. After a moment he gave up, snapped his jaw shut, and picked up the tray he’d left on the lock table: a litre of water, jasmine tea (lukewarm now despite the tea cozy), a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He took the stairs slowly as she stood facing the lock wall, not watching him ascend. She still hadn’t moved when he returned from leaving the tray in her room. He stopped behind her, wary of making eye contact, and saw her flinch and shudder at his unseen presence. He cursed himself as he cleared his throat and moved on into the library, standing by the cold fireplace. Shock would leave her prone to chills; he should have had a fire ready.

“What do you know?” she asked in a brittle voice.

He cleared his throat again. “I received a call several hours ago from some functionary informing me you were on your way back here and that the matter was ‘resolved,’ but she refused to provide any details other than demanding I never speak of it again. I don’t know where you were. Or where Mycroft is now.” That last came out as a warning to her.

“He was there. At the end. He left with them, the agents who—“ Her voice cracked, and her rate of respiration increased. He clenched his fists in helplessness, casting about for something useful to do. For not knowing what happened, and feeling desperate for that knowledge. He bit back those questions.

“Is there— I know they must have told you we can’t divulge our…involvement with Le Millieu, but shall I call your mother? A friend?”

She gave a harsh laugh or sob. “A friend,” she choked. “No.” She shifted toward the staircase. His eyes followed once her back was turned and watched her drag her feet up each step as if they were made of lead. “There’s no one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Orison and beanarie for beta & encouragement to finally get this chapter done.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to beanarie & Orison for beta.

The phrase that dogged her lagging steps back to the brownstone was “for better or worse.” Joan didn’t feel married to her work, nor god forbid to Sherlock, and yet the metaphor rang true. She was committed to their partnership, whatever it was. Even in the face of _not this_ , the gaping-open case and the plastic sheeting the kitchen. She couldn’t accept it, wouldn’t ever agree to his rationalizations and blustered insistence. But what was actually worse was that she couldn’t promise not to cross some horrible line herself someday. According to Emily, she already had. And so she couldn’t stay away now simply because of what he’d done.

Didn’t mean she didn’t need her own place, though. He’d said it himself; she could live elsewhere and still be his partner. She _was_ his partner, even when she almost wished she wasn’t. But if it wasn’t all going to be for worse, there was other work that needed doing. Because being “his” partner wasn’t good enough. If she was going to draw her own lines and cross them herself, she needed to know where they were. And for that she _had_ to get a little distance.

She stood outside the back door for five minutes, afraid to face what she’d fled, who might be inside, their questions and demands releasing the things she wasn’t remembering right now. She just needed to get past the kitchen and up the stairs. She could do that with her eyes closed, literally, be asleep by the time she fell into her bed. And then not think about any of it for a very long time.

All right, get it over with, she chided herself. She could feel her legs shaking as she closed her eyes and pushed the door open. After a few tentative steps she still hadn’t reached the plastic drop cloth, so she peeked, then gawked. It was all gone. The kitchen was spotless. Gleaming, even; she’d never seen the floor like that. Nothing out of place. No evidence at all of what had transpired, the entire experience erased and wiped clean. For a second she even wondered, horrified, if she’d hallucinated it all, and then unleashed rage eviscerated all doubt.

* * *

She wanted to slam the bedroom door behind her, but the weak flail of her arm only brushed the edge, and its slow momentum eased it closed, just barely, the latch caught by the edge of the strike plate. She collapsed on her bed in a heap that rattled the dishes on the tray Sherlock had set on the end. It was in her way and she wanted to kick it off but instead heaved herself over to grab the handles and half-drop it to the floor with a clatter that jolted the pounding in her head. She couldn’t bear the pressure of his distress; even the little teapot reeked of anxiety. A minute later her traitorous stomach objected to another day of neglect, so she leaned over again to grab half a sandwich and devoured it in four bites. Her arms trembled with effort to push back up.

With the final swallow, the last tatters of her ability to remain upright unraveled. She keeled over on her side, utterly spent, knees pulled up and hands fumbling for the pillow. After a moment she reached back awkwardly to drag the covers over from behind. A desperate yearning to wash away the grit of the last 60 hours surfaced, but the tidal pull of exhaustion was relentless, and she let go. Later. She was pretty sure there would be a later, and many unthinkable things that would have to be done then. Just not now. Not now. _Not this_ — No, that too, later. The waves drew her under.

A choking gasp, and terror burst. Heart pounding, eyes wide. She drew a shuddering breath when she remembered where she was. A glance at her watch and the sinking feeling of despair: Less than an hour since she lay down. She closed her eyes again and focused on her heartbeat, solid and strong if a bit too fast. Tried to breathe slowly and relax her face and neck. A car backfired and she flinched. Breathe. Breathe. Her pulse ebbed, still present but calmer. Jolt from a dog bark. Slow in, slower out. Skin crawling at the slide of a delivery van door. Breathe. Two breaths, five, and then a creak of the bed frame under her ear and panic ripped through again. Quick footsteps downstairs set off another flash of terror before recognition doused the fear, its embers smoldering.

It wasn’t fair that she had nowhere else to go. Her own damn fault, as much as she wanted to blame every Holmes she knew. She should have moved out months ago and built a new sanctuary, a back-up — even now she had no illusions that she wouldn’t spend hours working here no matter where she lived — and a bolt hole. It was humiliating, cowering in her room with Sherlock downstairs, deducing her every autonomic response. She couldn’t let her guard down for a second, or he’d stake his own priorities and agenda, dragging her around the world chasing sunken treasure.

Or resort to improvising with sharp implements in a leather case.

She trusted him completely and not at all, and she couldn’t continue like that. Like this. Not when her trust in herself proved so wretchedly unwarranted. She had over-extended professionally, no question; Sherlock would never have been taken in that alley. And personally— God! Her judgment was crap. Subject to the slightest pressure and she caved: Reacting to Sherlock’s misogynistic predictions by fulfilling them. At the time she told herself she was acting spontaneously with Mycroft, on a whim, and as her own person. But a millisecond of thought would have made obvious the manypitfalls of that decision, even without knowing Mycroft was mostly (a last shred of self-respect clung desperately to that “mostly”) using her to distract Sherlock from what was happening at Diogenes.

* * *

Years ago, probably during the second or last round with Liam, Emily had dragged her to some self-help seminar on relationships. Em’s own marriage was struggling at the time — this wasn’t one of her bald attempts to fix Joan; it must have been Liam’s second chance, before Emily knew what was going on. The speaker’s topic was forgiving the unforgivable, that most people in long-term relationships had the experience of facing a choice, whether to leave or find a way to make sense of what you couldn’t accept. At the time, Joan thought she knew exactly what the woman meant and was proud (deluded, she’d say now) of how she’d handled her own choices. Over the years, her confidence in her ability to navigate treacherous interpersonal waters gradually waned until Gerald Castoro emptied his life’s blood on her table because of her unforgivable act. In the end, she chose neither forgiveness nor acceptance, and she’d been avoiding herself ever since.

Sherlock saw through that immediately, and in retrospect the first indication of his regard for her might have been the lengths he went to avoid confronting her about it. Or at least after the one time that first week, when she did almost leave. She’d never told him her temper had cooled before the opera’s overture finished, and that she’d planned to give him a second chance the next morning instead of calling for a replacement. It seemed unlikely he hadn’t figured that out somehow when he took his seat in the middle of Act II, but he never let on. The uncharacteristic tact was the first of many accommodations he made. Of course he would brush it off as mere convenience, or efficiency, or pragmatism, and she still made twice — or ten times — as many accommodations herself, for him. But it was far and away more than he did for anyone else, and no matter how problematic it was, it meant something to her, to mean that much to him.

* * *

She took a deep breath and tried to rub the strain out of her neck without making the headache worse. A murmur of reason from years of therapy and sober companion experience nudged through the thicket of recrimination. Taking full responsibility for _everything_ that transpired might be a bit much. Kidnapping probably wouldn’t have been on her list of likely downsides that night in London; she was fairly certain it wasn’t part of Mycroft’s plan.

She burrowed her face into the pillow, teeth clenched and hot tears leaking, ashamed and frustrated by her lack of control. Memories rose up unbidden: her photograph in the motorcycle top-box, the thick cloying odor of the cloth over her face, Jem’s bloody torso, dark smears on the box-cutter handle when she finished, his body rocked by each bullet. She’d frozen then and made no attempt to intervene, to stop it; in fact she’d forced the gunman’s hand and now — now! when it was too late — she couldn’t hold back any longer and sobbed, afraid of making noise, getting caught. Being weak.

The second time she lurched awake, it was harder to separate the horror and pain of the dream from reality. In the nightmare she held a bloody scalpel that killed everyone she touched. When the gunman pulled the trigger after she refused to operate on Jem, she jolted to consciousness, unsure what was real. Her eyes blinked and squinted against the bright afternoon light, but she also felt the scalpel hard and sharp in her grip.

She cautiously pulled her hand from under the pillow. Her fist was locked tight, still clutching her father’s whistle, its rough plastic seam biting her palm. She had to use her other hand to force the fingers open, and she set the toy aside to rub the stiffness from each joint. The cut stung, but the ache in her knuckles eased. Still curled on the bed, she lifted the whistle to her lips with her good hand and breathed through it, in and out, making a faint, two-beat wheeze. It was hardly music, but the nightmare’s terror receded with each shaky breath.

* * *

Her earliest memory was being in her crib, entranced by the sound of her father playing the piano down the hall. He couldn’t have been living with them then; a supervised visit after the divorce, perhaps. She shared that room with Oren in their small apartment, but the memory was her alone, unafraid because the music meant her father was there, playing for her. He stopped coming by soon after that, unable to contain the disintegration of his mind. She didn’t remember much else of those years.

When she was older, her stepfather read them bedtime stories every night and eventually listened to them read to him, a proper family tradition he said, his father and grandfather and a long line of Watsons before them. She was proud of being part of that history, but when a thunderstorm burst or a friend turned mean at recess or some other childhood pain struck, it was the music she remembered to soothe her spirit.

Music stayed with her father as a frequent topic of conversation, although he stopped playing early in his disease. He wouldn’t touch the battered uprights and keyboards used for occupational therapy in the hospitals he hated. His own piano stayed with them over the years, and both she and Oren took lessons reluctantly, at Mary’s insistence. He cried listening to their recitals at the few terrible home visits they all endured after her stepfather moved them to the suburbs. At the time she thought he was disappointed in her for playing so badly, his illness removing the filter that would let him lie to his children. Later she realized he was crying for what he’d lost, and she was disappointed in herself for taking it personally.

* * *

She didn’t know how long she’d been captive when she heard the soft notes. The zip ties fell off her wrists, and she rose, shaking from adrenaline and straining to hear. The room she’d been kept in felt strangely calm, and there was only the utter stillness of unoccupied space around her. The sound came from the far wall, where a door she hadn’t noticed stood ajar. A low, dreamy, melodious air flowed in. The music was nothing she recognized, and yet it was remarkably familiar and comforting all the same. Like a blanket gently draped over her shoulders by a friend who realized she was shivering. She tiptoed toward it, and as she approached, the warehouse faded, and she was home, and safe, and lulled into tranquil sleep by the violin.

When she woke next, her room was dark in the wee hours, and downstairs Sherlock was still playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a _long_ time ago, [lizzieraindrops shared a wish](http://lizzieraindrops.tumblr.com/post/64120430664/) to see this moment from ACD canon in another adaptation. I’ve been waiting to find a place to try it ever since.
> 
> _“Look here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep.”_
> 
> _He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air, - his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation._
> 
> —Arthur Conan Doyle, _[The Sign of the Four](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2097/2097-h/2097-h.htm)_


End file.
